Crouchback

The prow of the chalet, cantilevered on massive posts, jutted from the south face of the mountain. This triangular glass wall blazed down the valley at night like a beacon or a warning or a distant advertisement, one of those mile-high signs gas stations put up to attract customers from the highway. A giant letter ‘A.’

Con didn’t come often, had made the six-hour trip north only five times, never staying more than one night. But now as she drove in on the frozen main road the village of Crouchback looked completely familiar (all traffic lights flashing yellow, shades drawn like brown eyelids over the fronts of small brick shops), tidy and forever-after, like a picture in an old book. Sometimes she had the odd feeling that this high valley had been created for Fritz, as if he were the only real person living there. Encircled by the spines and shoulders of mountains, all of them crouchbacks, black against the vibrant starry sky.

Before she’d always come up by bus, wary of Vermont’s snows. In the beginning Fritz had urged her to take advantage of the fourseater plane he chartered for business junkets, but Con refused. She wasn’t in that much of a hurry. An incalculable expense. Also, the idea of flying over mountains in howling mid-winter scared her. But this time for once she’d decided to drive herself, assuming that by March the roads would be tamed, scraped clear and sanded … But she had spiralled down the offramp of US 85 into a tunnel of snowbanks glimmering four, five feet high … And now she was crawling through Crouchback in second gear, straining to detect traps of glare ice left by the day’s thaw. As she swerved to avoid one glinting black patch she must have hit another: the Pinto spun out of control on its axis while Con stabbed at the useless brake, screaming a high thin scream of frustration and terror. Her stomping foot hit the accelerator. The car flew forward with a roar, leaving the ground, cat-leaping into a a dense packed wall of snow.

“You’re shivering.”

“Surprise. Two hours, you would too.”

“Hypothermia … Oh dear, look at this cut on your nose.”

“Bad?”

“Hold still! No. Not deep. I’ll fetch some ice, hm? You’ll probably wake up tomorrow with two lovely raccoon eyes …”

“Great! Then she’ll really want to know where I’ve been hanging out,” Con called after him. “And with who.” She squirmed deeper into Fritz’s robe. A woolen sea on her, somber blue cashmere. You only comprehended the luxury once you were inside.

She’d made it. Safe now inside the soaring window, looking down over the first slope of the mountain from impregnable warmth and light, gazing across space at mountains massed against a sky tinged blue as Fritz’s robe. Cold halo of the rising moon.

Fritz’s hand circled into her line of vision and the ice, wrapped in slick plastic, descended. “Ouch. That hurts.”

“Be still. How you can complain about a little ice when you’ve just risked your neck! Climbing up here in the pitch dark, in the snow. Ach, Konstanza. Imagine if you had fallen, out there—”

“I did. I slipped a zillion times. It was fun, kind of a relief after driving, just took a lot longer than I—Brr. The last part goes straight up. Jesus. Forget that.” Con grinned beneath the stinging ice. “You were funny. You nearly croaked, when I knocked on the door. Like you didn’t expect me—”

“I didn’t expect you all caked with snow, with a bloody face!” He grimaced, biting his lower lip with long stained teeth. “What possessed you? From town you could have called me!”

Con was silent, still churning with the exhilaration of plunging on all fours around trees, through brambles, tripping and sinking, alone under the whining wind. Crashing upward through hip deep drifts while peeping terrified rodents skittered away on the crust of snow. Her stubbornness. That energy was returning now, re-forming as a glow through her whole body … the body drifting languid under the motionless waves of a large blue robe.

“Sometimes,” murmured Fritz, “your behavior disturbs me.”

He moved away again, leaving her to hold the icepack which she swiftly dumped on the floor beside her chair, a black leather bowl that swivelled noiselessly so she could study him. Fritz’s slack jeans pouched below flat thin buttocks, as though someone heavier had worn them first. His plaid lumber jacket, pink and grey, echoed his flushed neck, streaked beard … His long bony feet were bare. He kept the chalet that warm.

It was a single open space, soaring twenty feet high at the shadowy peak. A loft deck at the far end held his mattress and bookshelves. Below, the shipgalley kitchen, narrow door to the bath. Papers, books, ringbinders stacked on the floor. Except for Con’s leather throne, the only furnishings were a pair of straight chairs, an oak table that doubled as desk, a filing cabinet, and the elaborate stereo she remembered from California. And a telex machine, alien as a robot from outer space.

“Hey,” Con called. Fritz was rattling pans in a cabinet, running water. “I have to call Lordie.”

Fritz shook his head without turning. “Not now. You rest.”

Con sighed, then spoke to the ceiling. “What do you mean, ‘disturb’?”

No answer. She knew. ‘Disturb’ meant exasperate, piss off. She disturbed him by not taking everything he offered in one greedy gulp. He’d tried to buy clothes for her: Italian shoes, silk dresses from a Crouchback boutique. He kept giving her books which she left in his house … But she wasn’t shy about the big things: rent for Station Street, and all Cherry’s medical costs, beyond what Social Services kicked in. These bills she forwarded to Fritz unopened. These things they had agreed on, that awful, wonderful night when her calls finally tracked him down. While Cherry lay on the floor in fresh pools of bile and thick dark blood, the ringing had suddenly stopped and then Fritz’s voice boomed in Con’s ear, so solid and everyday that she’d been shocked dumb. That night had felt like the final end of everything, but turned out to be the beginning.

To take what Cherry needed now seemed fair. Fritz was rich, he complained about the work of having too much, who else would he share with? Well, almost fair. Con’s promises—to set up Harborview, to move, to call once a week and to visit—were hardly an even trade. And not only Cherry gained. Free rent, plus the cash she found in her coat pocket after each visit, made all the difference for Lordie and her; it was almost a lazy feeling, not stealing any more. Sometimes she felt like she was digging in herself for gratefulness like someone digging for water in dry sand. But you couldn’t make yourself grateful, any more than you could make yourself love. She had never said any of this, to Fritz.

“Hey,” she called again. “I came all the way up here! You said there was something you want to talk to me about.”

From across the room the kettle shrieked. Fritz snatched it up then turned to smile at her and wag a finger. She settled the dripping ice pack over her face again.

He stayed—caught in the half-turn, holding out the steaming kettle—printed on her closed eyes. Under the kitchen spotlight his highdomed head shone through thin hair. There was a stooping slope to his shoulders, an apologetic bulge in his upper back, that looked nothing like the Fritz she remembered from long ago. His speckled beard was trimmed shorter—she imagined him, alone here, fooling with beard styles the way women fool with their hair. The loose skin of his cheeks folded forward, narrowing his mouth: babyish, somehow. What would it be like, she wondered, to watch a father age?

“What are you doing?” The ice had melted to slippery minnows, impossible to hold.

“Patience! You’ll see. A surprise.”

He heard pretty well now. Maybe his condition had improved, or maybe living without Ada had sharpened his hearing. The deafness might have begun more for solidarity, for balance, to keep Ada’s blindness company, Con thought.

There was almost nothing here to remind her of Ada. She glanced toward the cavernous ceiling—sometimes a stray bat lost its grip up there, flapped crashing into the beams—then down along the bare varnished pine floor. No rugs. Ada would have felt as disoriented as the bat, here. Ada’s only visible possessions were her records: Debussy, Chopin, Rachmaninoff, stacked in milk crates along one wall. Odd, because deaf or not Fritz was immune to music—scratching and buzzing, he called it. Were the records all he kept here, to remind him?

Ada was gone. But she always was a ghost, Lordie had pointed out, and maybe there was some truth, because now Con felt her both absent and close. Seeing Fritz she saw Ada, a darkeyed bird-ghost in silver feathers; she even caught the smell of her lilacky perfume. Fritz didn’t like to talk about her. Only five years ago, he said—as if five years were nothing—and I should have thought of you then; why didn’t I? I didn’t know where you were.

It wasn’t any illness. Her death was an accident, senseless as any. She had been rowing to the artificial island in the lake, and stood up, and slipped, and drowned. Fritz, though he was gardening nearby, never heard her.

Sometimes, though not tonight, Con felt deaths everywhere, transparent and cold as an icy rain, the only real thing. Some mornings in the blurred instant of waking she felt saved, reprieved, as if she’d gotten away with something …

Fritz approached with a gliding shuffle, carrying a large wicker tray. “So. Done.” He knelt like a school-play prince. “You were dozing, hm?”

“I was not.”

“Ah ah. I watched you.”

Con touched her nose and the pang woke her completely. “What’s all that?” Silver foil chocolate bits, and oranges sliced open like flowers. Two mugs brimming with beige liquid. “Tea? Ick. Tea’s for fevers.”

“Tea with rum. With sugar.”

“Oh boy. The candy man.” The phrase came from one of Fran’s songs. “What’re you, trying to get me high? Only kidding.” She bent to take a mug. The acrid bite of rum made her eyes water. “Eeow …”

“Don’t be a baby, Konstanza! Down the hatch.”

But he often did treat her like a baby, or like an incompetent child. Like the time he scolded her for never having gone to a dentist and then phoned for the appointment himself; next visit she had to show him her new fillings, tugging her cheek up in a rubbery grimace as proof. (Her teeth felt slick, ridgy, a new-made landscape. She sent Lordie to that dentist, too.) He cooked for her and cleaned up after. That she had a driver’s licence amazed him, which was understandable, since he drove so horribly himself.

Con shoved her mug away. “No offense, but this tastes like kerosene.”

“It would be a pity if you …” He paused, to settle closer, crosslegged, with a groan of stiffness. “I hope,” Fritz resumed, “that you’re not developing some phobia about liquor.”

“No. It’s just—”

“You know even if it’s partially hereditary, you’re hardly in the direct line of fire. Not that you—. Besides I gather from the reports that in her case it’s considered a symptom, not even her primary problem? What ever her primary problem is.”

“Her whole life,” said Con dismissively. She didn’t want this talk.

“Well.” He sucked in his rum-tea, whoosh, like an Oriental. “I suppose I should ask. How is she? Back in again, you said.”

“Yah. Well actually she’s great.” Wild horses couldn’t make her confess about the electro. Cherry—if by some black magic Cherry could hear them now—would never forgive that betrayal. “She looks fantastic.”

“You don’t say.” As if Con were lying.

“Yah.”

“I can assume you still haven’t mentioned—my involvement?” Fritz peered up; the skin around his eyes wadded like tissue paper. “And your brother wouldn’t—You’re quite sure she has no idea?”

“Yes. She just believes me, okay?”

Did he believe her? He drained his mug in loud swallows. He’s afraid of Cherry, Con realized. Still, after all this time. And Cherry still carried a torch for Fritz—as she some nights confessed, in the calm after a first drink. ‘Just call me a oneman woman, Cutie. Fate worse than death.’ Con had a terrible urge to laugh; it came up like a hiccup.

“Oh, Fritz—”

“‘Oh, Fritz’ what?” Suddenly he laughed with her. “Oh, Konstanza.” He selected a chocolate and began picking at the foil. After Con ate the offered square he rolled the foil in his fingertips down to a tiny sparkling ball.

I should have called Lordie, she thought, staring into pin-wheeling memory, seconds after the light went out. On previous visits to Crouchback she had always called him, to say she’d arrived okay and missed him and goodnight, see you tomorrow. Of course her excuse was the almost-accident, the climb, how late it got. Excuses, but not consolation. She twitched, preparing to slide out from under Fritz’s down comforter and make things right, even though it was three, maybe four in the morning. But Lordie would be sleeping. She hoped he was asleep … Almost no warning she’d given him, this trip. I’m going, Lordie, you know I have to. Hold the fort. And then she hadn’t called. Was she trying to punish him in advance, give him a taste of her sadness once he was gone for practice nearly every night while she waited up for him to bounce in singing, oblivious, ravenous and reeking of chlorine?

She twitched all over. Fritz held her down. He was wide awake, up on one elbow, his raspy breath mixed with the wind that had risen to shake the chalet. He stroked her: from neck to shoulder, spine to hip, the way you’d stroke a cat. She wore only underwear, and his shirt. Her clothes were in her satchel, the satchel in the Pinto, the Pinto butted into a snowbank, below … Fritz’s hand snagged her skin. Callusses, she thought. He spent his mornings felling trees. By daylight you could see the cut up the mountain behind the chalet—his gleaming snowfield, a slowly expanding scar.

The mattress moved. “You’re worrying,” Fritz whispered. He lay beside the narrow mattress, on a double layer of blankets.

“I forgot to call him … I’m such a stupid jerk.”

Fritz’s hand covered her forehead, as if checking for fever. “In the morning, hm? It’ll be morning, soon enough.”

Well, why didn’t he sleep? It was Fritz’s habit to keep her company like this, for only a while before carrying his blankets down the ladder and arranging himself for the night. (I don’t mind at all, he’d insisted. It’s very pleasant under the window. I see the stars.) Was he keeping watch, fussily concerned, suspecting she might have caught cold from her climb?

Or else. Or else. He was so careful to hold his long body angled modestly, considerately, away from her. Only his knees, in shifting, once brushed the backs of her thighs. It shamed her to imagine anything sexual with Fritz—no, these hot little unfinished thoughts shamed him. She lay facing the musty bookshelves with her indifferent spine curved toward him.

Who’re you kidding? a smart voice demanded.

Con’s skin tingled, sore from long stroking. But to ask him to stop would sound rude—

Rude. Oh you crack me up.

Cherry, if she could see them now, would remind Con that she was a whore. (Cherry, if she could see, would go berserk. Murder them both.) She’d called her a whore for less. A lot less. You, Cutie, have all the earmarks of a love junkie, she said. Think I don’t know what you’re looking for, traipsing around? Round heels, for a promise and squeeze. Just don’t come crying to me the day some streetcorner Lothario knocks you up.

If that was what Fritz wanted, wouldn’t he show her? The way boys did, wheedling and kissing, with unswerving obstinacy. Boys … but maybe not men. What Con knew about mature men wouldn’t fill a page.

But if, you’d let him, right? For God’s sake it’s not a big deal.

Maybe men Fritz’s age got tired of scheming and persuading. Maybe he was waiting for her to uncurl herself, to move, to politely invite him.

Con’s body was just that, not her self. The body happened to be a virgin as she understood that term. Which sometimes meant zero to her, and sometimes meant a lot.

Her very first boyfriend, Dexter, had taken her further than she’d ever been. Nearly to the end which—remembering, now—she’d believed would be the beginning, like changing your name and starting a new life. No other boy came close. Why not? Maybe sex was like learning a language—easiest to get the hang of when you’re very young. Now whenever a boy touched her she was letting curiosity stand for desire. She was lying. Until her head filled with the silent words: get away. Let go now. I can’t.

Fritz murmured, “Konstanza.” His hand rested on the narrowest part of her waist. Directly above them, from the roof peak, an owl hu-huued, defying dawn.

“Talk to me,” she whispered.

“My dear child. It’s far too late …”

“But I’m wide awake. You’re awake.” She paused. “You could tell me what it was you wanted to talk to me about.”

Fritz rolled away. Without his hand she felt chilled. “All right. Though I’m probably …” He was quiet a long time, but from his breath—short, almost excited—she was reassured. He wasn’t sleeping. He whispered, “I want to adopt you. Both of you, of course.”

Con arched upward. “What for? We’ve already got a—” She fell on her chin and said through her teeth, “Fritz. I’m not a little kid. I’m grown up.” She sounded stern. Barked a laugh she wasn’t ready for. “That’s so crazy.”

“It’s much less complicated than you probably think. I’ve talked to my attorneys. They’re the best. Palmer & Dodge …” He addressed the ceiling beams, in a low murmur, almost as if he were alone, rehearsing. “Essentially all that’s needed is your acceptance. And his.”

“Well but—why?”

“Any number of reasons. Obviously, there are significant tax advantages.”

Con felt the burden of her ignorance. She had never filed a tax return. Now it occurred to her that Fritz might be upset to hear this.

“Oh, Konstanza—please understand, there are things I want for you! I expect you to finish school, of course. I want you to go on. I’ve thought—Switzerland. I know people there. Basel has a fine University, you would feel at home there, become more yourself—Basel is a peaceful, lovely town—” He stopped. His speech had been losing its rhythm, falling apart. As he turned toward her, his eyes caught the blind white gleam of moonlight. “Please, Konstanza. Say yes.”

Con faced him, doubled up, hands crossed over her chest. Her heartbeat was sharp and strong as if her heart knew something she didn’t. “Adopt. You’re serious. But how can—I mean, what about—”

“How old is your brother? Sixteen? Surely you agree he needs someone responsible, to look after him.”

Con bit slowly down on her lip till it released the metal tang of blood. “I mean, what about Cherry.”

“Oh. All that’s been gone into. There is really nothing legal there. Never was. Unless she chooses to be obstructive … But we have the option of making it worth her while not to … Not that I relish …”

Con couldn’t hear him. She felt deafened and drained, her mind washed blank. “Ada,” she finally said. “Only it’s too late.”

“No. No.” Fritz’s hand closed on her arm. “It’s what she would have wanted.” The owl crooned again. Con closed her eyes. “What everyone would have wanted. Laurence. Dear Caroline …”

Con saw Caroline, the woman Fritz often tried to describe for her, still existing somewhere, lovely and insensate, like Sleeping Beauty in her glass box.

“Hush, now.” His motionless hand warmed her everywhere. “You’re utterly exhausted. Dear child. Everything’s all right. We’ll talk tomorrow. Hush.”

When she opened her eyes, the books, shelves, loftrail, rafters had all emerged a speckled uncertain grey, like a frame from an old movie. The window wall glowed pale. She raised her head, her neck surprisingly stiff. Pushed up on one elbow, then the other. Her tangled hair travelled across the hot pillow. Then, with cautious curiosity, she reached to touch Fritz’s beard, so much softer to touch than it looked. The hearing aid nestled in his exposed left ear. In the gritty tired light, Fritz slept.